


Special Delivery

by OctarineSparks



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Humour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-30
Updated: 2014-01-30
Packaged: 2018-01-10 13:18:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1160168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Uh oh. Mary's in labour with only our favourite consulting detective there to help her through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Delivery

The latent stage of labour is often the longest, especially for women having their first child. It is characterised by the contractions of the uterus, spasms which become longer and more painful as labour progresses. The body undergoes a large number of changes in a small amount of time, as it prepares for the hardship of childbirth. The cervix effaces, becoming stretched and thinned. The baby itself is manoeuvred by the uterine contractions into a suitable position, occipito-anterior, or facing the mother's back, to best facilitate delivery. Once the cervix has dilated to four centimetres, the mother is now in established labour, which tends to be a faster phase. At ten centimetres, mothers often sense the urge to push, driving their pelvic muscles to expel the baby from the birth canal. Head and shoulders, being the widest part, require the most work on the mother's part, but once these are delivered the rest of the body should be delivered in one or two further pushes. This is accompanied by the endocrine system flooding the body with oxytocin, which creates feelings of contentment and lowers anxiety levels, and which is incredibly important for the process of maternal bonding. The final stage of labour involves delivering the placenta, during which oxytocin continues to be released. 

Of course, none of this means a bloody thing to Mary, who is breathing like an asthmatic water buffalo and crushing the bones in Sherlock's hands to dust. 

"Where the hell is he, Sherlock?" she growls through gritted teeth. 

Sherlock's first instinct is to lie. Despite her current state, Mary seems not only capable but willing to seriously harm Sherlock without so much as a by-your-leave. This strikes him as particularly unfair, as it's not as though any of this is his fault. 

"I believe he's stuck in traffic, roadworks on the roundabout apparently." He's not sure which tone to use. Comforting and soft seems appropriate, but when faced with the labour throes of a woman who's skill set includes at least twelve different ways to kill a man with a dishcloth, soft and fluffy may not be the way. 

And while pragmatic may not be entirely soothing, it is at least very Sherlock. 

"Those works were finished three days ago," Mary snaps, breathing heavily. She has been temporarily released from the agony of another contraction, but she is still breathing through her nose as though she were trying to dislodge a kitten from her nostril. 

"Tell me where he is, or so help me God I'll-" Mary's words are stopped short as another agonising contraction rips through her violently. Her screams make Sherlock both wince and panic, and he is gripped by a sudden urge to collect fluffy towels. If only she was being murdered, he thinks wistfully. 

As the latest contraction abates, Mary worryingly regains her composure. "Where. Is. He?" she asks, the unspoken threat to Sherlock's well being woven into every word. 

"HewenttopickupsomekidenysfromBarts," Sherlock mumbles, quite forgetting that increased sensitivity in the aural functions is a known side effect of pregnancy. 

"You WHAT?" Mary shouts, as another contraction brings her to knees on the floor of Sherlock's kitchen. 

"Kidneys. Bart's. Sorry," Sherlock states in a horrified monotone. Mary seems to be morphing into a hate-filled, Sherlock guided missile before his very eyes. 

"In our defence, you're not due for another four days." He's immediately hit with the genius deduction that this was probably the wrong thing to say, as Mary's face bypasses red and moves on to full blown purple at his words. 

"Sherlock Holmes, on all that I am, I promise you are going to suffer for this. You know what I'm capable of, you shouldn't... Oh, God!" Another contraction, and Mary gropes for Sherlock's hand. He's reluctant to give it to her, as the bones are already well bruised. 

"Mary, keep calm, I'm sure he'll be here soon. Oh Christ, you're leaking!"

"What? Oh-" A puddle is spreading at Mary's feet. Sherlock's immediate thought is that it smells vaguely like straw, and he feels slightly queasy. He whips his phone out. 

"John? Where are you?" He tries to hide his panic, and is clearly unsuccessful. 

"I'll be five minutes. What the Hell's going on?" Judging by the background roar of an engine, John is close to breaking the sound barrier. 

"John, there's amniotic fluid all over my kitchen floor," Sherlock complains. 

"Oh, bugger! Tell Mary to hang on!"

Sherlock covers the mouthpiece with his hand. "Well?" Mary demands. 

"He says to cross your legs," Sherlock says ridiculously. 

John's protest of 'No, I bloody well didn't!' can be heard mutely from the earpiece. 

Sherlock ends the call and puts his phone in an empty pot on the stove where it can't yell at him anymore. 

"Ok Sherlock," Mary says, her voice levelled. "You need to shape up, because this baby is coming whether John is here or not and I am really scared. So help me, please. Can you do that for me Sherlock?"

Sherlock stares mutely at Mary and blinks a few times. 

"Fantastic."

Another contraction, and Sherlock could swear that they are getting closer together. He tries to control the rising hysteria he feels and looks down at Mary, who is still kneeling on the floor. 

"Well, you can't give birth down there," he says, controlling the wobble in his voice. He reaches down and hooks his arms under Mary's armpits. 

"You did call an ambulance, right?" Mary asks as Sherlock manhandles her over to the sofa. She's suddenly hit with the awful idea that she may have no one to help her through this but a socially backward sociopath, and crossing her legs doesn't seem like such a bad idea after all. 

"Yes, they should be here soon," Sherlock replies, glancing at the window, hoping to see the comforting blue flash that will excuse him from this nightmare. 

As he flops Mary carelessly onto the sofa, another contraction arrives, but to Sherlock's deductive mind her screams sounds different. 

"Mary..?" he says, almost as if he hopes she won't hear him. 

"Oh God, this baby wants out now." She almost sounds disappointed, and the look she gives Sherlock only seems to back up the idea. 

"Just... Just hold on. The ambulance, John, look, other people, they will all be here soon. Should I call Molly? Will that help?" Sherlock flails his hands around pointlessly. 

"A bloody pathologist? No, Sherlock, do not call Molly. Look, just help me get these sodding trousers off!"

All of the colour drains from Sherlock's face. 

"Mrs Hudson!" he shouts at the top of his lungs. 

"She's not here! Please, Sherlock, it's got to be you!"

Grimacing, Sherlock hooks his fingers into the waistband of Mary's jeans. The denim is sodden, and he looks away as he yanks them down. 

"Right," he says, dropping them onto the floor as though they were something he just scraped off the bottom of his shoe. "Now what?"

Mary looks at him, almost apologetically. "Knickers."

"What? No, I couldn't. John would-"

"Bugger John! I am not delivering this child into the gusset of Marks and Spencer's finest!"

Sherlock looks around the flat for something, anything to cover Mary's modesty while he does the unpleasant deed. With a hurt expression, his eyes fall in his beloved Belstaff, which he throws over Mary's lower half with a moment's hesitation. Then, turning his head resolutely in the other direction, he delicately removes Mary's underwear. 

"John, where are you?" they both plead in unison as yet another contraction grips Mary. 

"Oh God, I have to push," Mary moans, seemingly angry at herself. 

"No you don't," Sherlock says stupidly. 

Mary shoots him a withering look, but then sets her jaw and bears down. Panic overwhelms Sherlock and he is struck dumb. 

"Don't just stand there," Mary pants. "You need to catch the baby!"

"I always got picked last for rugby at school!" Sherlock protests, as though a note from his mother will get him out of this. 

Mary doesn't reply as she is once again gritting her teeth and making frankly disturbing noises. Sherlock tries to clear his mind, but all he can think of is how hard John is going to punch him when he finds out he removed his wife's underwear. 

"Please, she's coming," Mary implores, and her voice is so quiet and frightened that Sherlock's knees buckle beneath him without first consulting his brain. 

"You need to see what's going on," Mary tells Sherlock. 

With massive apprehension, Sherlock gingerly lifts one corner of his coat and immediately puts it back again, his face green. 

"I can see its head," he says, as though he had actually seen tentacles. 

Mary doesn't answer, but she is pushing again so Sherlock has no choice but to get back in there. The further push has caused the head to emerge completely, and without thinking Sherlock brings his hand up to support it. 

"Ok, head's out," he says, as though he can hardly believe it. "One more should do it, I think."

Mary howls, a primal sound that sets Sherlock's teeth on edge and gives him the inexplicable urge to hug his mother. With a disgusting plop, the rest of the baby is expelled, along with some other fluids Sherlock doesn't particularly want to think about. 

And then, suddenly, there she is. Tiny, screaming, covered in blood and absolutely perfect. 

"You did it Mary!" Sherlock gushes, unable to control the huge grin splitting his features. He's dimly aware of the blue lights in the background and the sound of urgent footsteps on the stairs. 

"Is she alright?" Mary asks, sobbing. 

"She's fine," Sherlock says quietly. "She's beautiful."

He grabs his coat from Mary and wraps the baby snugly inside. He hands her to Mary just as the door bursts open and John barrels inside, closely followed by two paramedics. 

John claps him on the shoulder absently before rushing to Mary's side. The paramedics kneel down at Mary's business end to conclude the rest of the affair. 

"Oh John, look at her," Mary sighs. Contentment bathes her features, and Sherlock is struck with the idea that she suddenly looks brand new. 

"I'm so sorry Mary," John says, shooting a look at Sherlock. 

"It's ok. It's fine. You're here now," Mary says sounding like she means it. "Sherlock was wonderful."

Sherlock can't help but feel that this is a rapid change in her attitude. Must be the oxytocin, he muses. John kisses his wife and daughter in turn and then gets to his feet. 

"John, I-" Sherlock begins as John rapidly approaches. He steels himself for whatever John has to throw at him, and is surprised when the man throws his arms around him and squeezes him into a bear hug. 

"Thank you," John says. 

"Um..." Sherlock's arms are pinned to his sides, and he wonders if John realises that he too is now covered in the detritus of childbirth that was all down the front of his shirt. 

"Really, thank you."

Sherlock nods curtly and sees John's return to his wife's side as his cue to leave. He enters his bathroom and strips off his jacket. Resting his hands on the sink, he finally breathes and tries his hardest not to pass out. Then, retrieving his phone, he scrolls through his phone book and makes an appointment to have his coat dry cleaned. 

Now they really should name her Sherlock, he thinks stubbornly.


End file.
